


You Will Find I'm The Backstabbing Kind

by Burning_Nightingale



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Cunnilingus, F/M, Lingerie, Mild Sexual Content, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:30:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/pseuds/Burning_Nightingale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's never done anything by halves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Will Find I'm The Backstabbing Kind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Porn Battle XV, but with shamefully little porn. I banged it out (no pun intended) in under half an hour so it may not be the best, but I enjoyed it :) 
> 
> For the prompt: **MacBeth - William Shakespeare, Lady MacBeth/MacBeth, blood, corset, club, crime, evil, lace, licking, lingerie, lipstick, modern, Prime Minister, secret, silverware, tower**

It’s a goddamn crime, the way he looks at her. There is such hunger in that gaze, such fire – it’s just not a fair competition, after he stares at her like that.

But then, fairness has never been something sacred between them.

He returns from the club with blood on his hands, whispers something about Duncan and a private room and deeds better left silenced. She’s at the mirror in nothing but lingerie, a tight corset and lace and stockings, and she smiles at his reflection. “Don’t tell, and they’ll never know,” she whispers, laying one long finger over her perfect lips. He smiles back.

It’s an evil smile, and she might be afraid, were she not an evil woman.

She stands, consciously graceful, struts to the bed, gives him the eyes over her shoulder. He follows like a well-trained dog, unlaces the corset with practised fingers. Everything is practised, familiar, and yet delicious. They have done this many times, but it never fails to have that certain _something._

He has her on her back, his face between her thighs, her fingers gripping cruelly tight in his hair. He doesn’t complain. She gasps and his tongue licks deeper, stronger. There’s nothing else she’d rather have.

“It’ll be our secret,” she says afterward, in front of the mirror once more. She applies her lipstick with precise, dangerous movements. “You’ll tell no one.”

He nods, once. “Get dressed,” she commands, dismissing him. “We don’t want to be late for dinner.”

No one suspects, behind her daring black dress and her bright red lips and matching, perfectly filed nails, that she is the powerful one. Do they suspect her husband? Banquo, maybe, sending weighted glances across the table. Macduff, probably, with his pointed comments. “I hear with Duncan’s death you’re in line to lead the party, Macbeth?” is what passes for casual from him.

Simpleton. None of them are half as subtle as her. These men discuss their business in challenges and half-truths over the clinking silverware, and none of them suspect her. That is their greatest mistake.

“To a Prime Minister-to-be, or so we hope!” Banquo toasts at the end of the meal, his familiar genial smile in place, but she suspects him. She suspects everyone. That is how they will survive, she and him. From anyone could come a dagger in the back. She will be watchful. She will be wary.

And if she dreams, sometimes, of a tower, of a long fall from a great height, she keeps it to herself. 

**Author's Note:**

> (P.S. If this was your prompt, drop me a line and I'll gift the fic to you ;) )


End file.
